Overtime

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I’m sure you saw the newsreels. The whole damn country watched ’em. Hundred-foot tall ape climbs the Empire State clutching a dame in his sweaty mitt, swatting down the Army’s planes like they was flies. Oh, they got him all right, and then come the intellectuals from the college wanting to study him, the reporters looking for a new angle on a story everybody was covering,  the politicians eager to earn some points with the public.

But after that, after they hooked up a crane and hauled the giant corpse out to Fresh Kills so chop into pieces small enough to fit into the incinerator, after the people and the cops and the photographers all went home–that’s where we come in. We work for the City. Our regular job is to keep the sidewalks swept, the ash cans empty. It’s easy work, mostly. A little cold in winter, a little hot in summer, but it’s necessary. Best of all, it’s regular.

Except when something like this happens. Then we’re working overtime for as long as they tell us to.

I probably won’t see my family for a month, not that they mind so much.